


counting stars & losing sleep

by thatsouthernanthem



Series: homestead prequels [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Feelings, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and forced its way into my smut fic, brasidas is the best spartan man, plot pushed me down, the Great Spartan Fuckfest of 400 Something BCE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-27 05:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsouthernanthem/pseuds/thatsouthernanthem
Summary: He learns her body in the hazy heat of summer days and nights filled with the cicadas' song.





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't have done this without Charlotte (alethiometry on tumblr) because she is my best cheerleader and co-creator of so much. Also she edited this beast and without her I'd have forced y'all to read a bunch of run on sentences as I abused the hell out of some commas.

He learns her body in the hazy heat of summer days and nights filled with the cicadas' song. 

The first time, it's quick and over far too soon for his liking, but she urged, cajoled and pushed until he broke over her like a wave. In the moments after, tangled with her in his bed, he learns that her heart's beat can lull him to sleep. 

Later, he learns that the three raised scars on her arm are from a lynx on Kephallonia, when she was a few years younger and a little less cautious. The tiny scar on her nose is from a brawl outside of one of the island's _tavernas_ and she shivers when he presses his lips against it. 

She sighs and relaxes in his embrace when he kisses the scar at her lips, tracing it with his tongue, tilting her head back so he can follow the line of her jaw afterward. "A well-placed punch," she murmurs, "split my lip on his ring." 

Humming against her skin, he continues downward, desperate to know more, learn more. There's a scar under ribs ("Arrow," she blinks down at him with blown pupils. "Lucky hit, good healer.") and then, further down, a scar on her hip bone. 

It is curved, curiously, and a little jagged along the edges and when he runs his tongue over it, she shifts under him, rubbing her thighs together and huffing a soft noise that could _almost_ be a moan. His hand drifts to her knee, moving her leg aside, so he can settle between. 

His breath is a warm puff back onto his lips as it bounces off her taut skin. "And this one," he whispers, grazing his teeth along the healed wound, and she tilts her hips in response. "Tell me about this one." 

The sound of his voice is gruff, demanding, ordering her to tell him every story etched onto her skin. She shivers again, from head to toe, and the scent of her fills his senses, flooding him with want, need. 

Her voice is shaky as she tells him it's just a silly one, a scar from losing her grip when she was learning how to climb mountains and scale walls. Deep enough to bleed worryingly for a while, but once it was stitched up, it was fine. Embarrassing, even.

But honestly, he's not truly listening to her words; he’s just basking in the way they break over him: the way her voice quivers when he scrapes his teeth over the mark again, the way she shifts under him when he sucks a mark into the skin below the scar, the smell of her growing heavier and heady as his simple actions wind her up. 

Pillowing his head on her thigh, he drags his fingers across her belly to her knee, pushing her leg out until she's spread before him, and all he can see, all he can smell, is her, and he groans, deep and rumbling in his chest, like a man starved and presented with a feast. 

The muscles under his hands, her thighs, her stomach, are trembling, like she's coiled tight and ready to bolt. So he decides it's time to learn how to make that coil _tighter_ until she will shatter beneath him.  

Holding her down with a hand snaked around her thigh and resting on her belly, he draws closer, tilting his head almost contemplatively, leaning forward and swiping his tongue along her folds.

 _This_ , he learned a long time ago, an old lesson from an old friend, far away from the red and black of Sparta. He'd been younger, inexperienced after years of living in barracks, and deep undercover. She had taught him patience, gentleness in new ways: how to use his mouth, fingers, tongue in a way to bring a woman to completion.

It's a thing to be proud of, for him. That he has Hellas' strongest hero under his hands and that he is the one pulling a heavy moan from her throat. He shifts, moving his hands to spread her with his thumbs and delves in.

The taste of her explodes on his tongue, musty, tangy, something that he can only describe as _Kassandra_. He takes his time, finding out what she sounds like when he draws the shape of a _xi_ on her clit (a high pitched moan, and she tilts her hips into his face, fingers threading through his hair, tugging—), or what she does when he slips his tongue inside of her (this draws out a strangled noise, and when he glances up at her he can see the column of her neck as she tilts her head back, her teeth biting into her lip).

"Gods, dammit, Brasidas," she pants, blinking down at him, the gold of her irises nearly eclipsed by black, her chest heaving, her hair loose around her shoulders and his cock twitches beneath him.

 _Time enough for that later_ , he says to himself, and settles back in. Moving one hand back to her hips to keep them pinned against the mattress (and she makes another strangled noise, something between a whine and a growl, the muscles in her legs contracting restlessly). “You’re always in charge, Kassandra.”

Sighing against her skin, he places a kiss at the crease of her thigh, and he glances back up at her again. She’s frozen in place, something akin to panic on her face, just for a quick moment before she schools her expression. He clicks his tongue at her and continues like he hadn’t seen the way her face changed. “Always taking care of everyone. Let me take care of _you_ for a time, hm?”

He slides a finger through her slick, pressing kisses against her thigh once more, waiting for her to respond. Brasidas knows how she needs to be the leader, _has_ to be, has _always_ had to be. If something was to be done, she would be the one to do it or no one would. And he has just asked her to relinquish her control, possibly the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

But he wants her to fall apart. Needs her to, desperately needs to see how, in every single way possible, to make her crash into him like waves on a ship. But most of all, he needs her to place her trust in his hands — at least, for now, in this.

He stops moving and glances up at her again, and there’s a protesting whine before she pushes her fingers into his hair. “Yes,” she hisses, pressing his head down and he laughs, a truly joyful noise. “Yes, yes, just _do it_.”

 Brasidas is a soldier, first and foremost, has been one his entire life, and he knows an order when he hears one. He’ll allow her this one last moment in charge.

Taking his time, he presses another kiss at her thigh, stroking her folds with his fingers but not giving enough pressure or time for her to get used to any sensation. She’s whining again, a needy keen as her fingers leave his hair and settle against her eyes, like she can block out his tortuous movements.

Finally he leans forward again (and he’s been waiting for this moment at least as long as her) and spears his tongue into her cunt, tasting her again. She’s wetter than before, so the talk about taking control had _some_ sort of effect on her. His fingers chase his tongue and he curls them inside of her, stroking, finding, _learning_.

Her knee crashes into his shoulder as her legs reflexively try to close, but he merely rearranges himself on top of her, holding one leg under his arm, the other coming to rest on his shoulder, and he continues, lapping at her clit, and then a graze of teeth—

She gasps air in and lets it out in a long moan, her fingers flying back to his head and she’s trembling underneath him. It would be so easy to just let her come, but something holds him back, that need to know more, to see how long he can draw it out.

Kassandra controlled the pacing their first time together; this time, Brasidas will steer. He pulls back, pressing kisses against her thighs again until he can feel the spasm inside of her subside and she’s cursing him with every breath.

“Don’t,” she pants as he starts again, fingers pressing deep inside of her, mouth against her skin. “Don’t, don’t fucking toy with me Brasidas—”

In response, he grazes his teeth against her again and her words cut off with a sharp moan and more curses tumble from her lips in an incoherent stream.

Again he brings her right to the edge and lets her look over it before pulling away and sitting up slightly to press his mouth against her knee and steal another look up at her.

Her eyes are glassy when she opens them to watch him lave his tongue along another scar just below her kneecap. Her chest heaves as she takes in another deep, shuddering breath and every muscle in her stomach and thighs seems to be jumping. She whimpers, just softly enough he can barely hear her, and reaches for him, fingers scrabbling at his arms to tug her toward him.

But he won’t let her, ducking away from her hands to finally give into her, to push his tongue inside of her, press his fingers against the bundle of nerves at her center, and the overstimulation proves to be too much this time. He forces himself to look up at her, watching.

When she comes, her mouth opens, her hands fly to the bed, tangling in the blanket under them; she stiffens, arching her back up toward the ceiling and he lets go of her hips to let her ride out her orgasm against his mouth.

He can’t help the groan that leaves him, a ragged noise torn from his chest as his mouth is flooded with the taste of her, stronger and sharper now, blood rushing in his ears and above it all, a delightful, high pitched whine that fills the room.

She collapses back into the bed and he grins against her cunt, drawing away after one long lap and sits up. Kassandra’s breathing is shaky and she’s pressed her fingers back to her eyes again.

“You alright?” he murmurs, drawing the back of his hand over his mouth and beard like a man wiping wine after a good pull from a _kylix_.

“Am I alright,” she mutters, pulling her hands away and looking at him with wild, still slightly glassy eyes. “He asks if I’m alright after fucking torturing me.”

Brasidas laughs and climbs his way up her body, drawing his tongue along a scar here or there, stopping at her breast to suckle another ragged groan out of her. She reaches between them and takes his cock in her hand and now it’s his turn to whine deep in his throat.

Her eyes flit over his face as she watches his reactions and he can only stare back for a moment before closing his eyes as pleasure shoots up his spine. Her damn hand — talented, in more than just spears and mountain climbing — slides up his shaft, fingers twirling around the head before pumping, slowly, squeezing.

“I should torture you, the way you did me,” she whispers in his ear, turning her head as he buries his face in her neck, licking the shell of his ear before biting it. His response is a sharp noise at the junction of her shoulder and a responding bite that teases another groan out of her. “But I’m still riled up and I’ll make you pay later.”

She rolls them then, and he still has enough of his mind left to help her, hold onto her hips as she settles, her slick against his belly and again his cock twitches. He doesn’t have long to wait, though, as Kassandra seems in a hurry again (he will have to figure out a way to get her to slow down, to let him enjoy her for hours and have her do the same to him in return), and then he’s inside of her — warm, pulsing, slick and smooth — and it takes a lot of talking to himself in the span of two seconds to not give in and come immediately.

Fingers tight on her hips, he stops her from moving, shaking his head. “Give me a second—”

The noise that comes then is frustration incarnate and he can’t help but laugh. Reaching for her, he draws her down for a kiss, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She follows, chasing his taste ( _her taste_ , he thinks, because he can still taste her) and tilts her hips into his, experimentally.

Sliding his hands down her body, he settles them on her hips and moves down enough so that when he braces his feet against the bed, he can snap his hips up and swallow down the choked gasp she lets out. His hands are on the move again, pressing between her shoulder blades to push her chest against his, wrapping around her to keep her there against him as he thrusts into her from below.

Tearing her mouth away from his, she sobs out another wail as his movements pick up, slamming into her again and again. His legs are trembling with exertion, he can feel himself swelling inside of her and he knows he will not last much longer.

For a long moment, the only noises in his small bedroom are the obscene slaps of skin meeting skin, his grunts and Kassandra crying out every curse she’s ever learned, and then suddenly—so quickly he wasn’t expecting it, but he’s hardly surprised, he left her overstimulated and incoherent just moments before—she’s silent, stiffening in his embrace, her arms working free of his grip around her to grab onto the headboard behind him and he watches as she comes again, this time above him. Her mouth falls open, her groan is low and her eyes squeeze shut as if she were staring into the sun.

It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing that Brasidas has ever seen, and it is definitely what pushes him over the edge. He grabs at her hips again and clutches her to him as he greets his ecstasy, spilling into her with a curse of his own, thrusting into her a few more times.

He lets go of her in a rush, gasping for air and pushing sweaty hair off of his forehead. Kassandra has collapsed beside him, staring at him with wide eyes before grinning.

“You are lucky,” she pants as she curls her hand at his chin, fingers playing with his beard. “That I like you, Brasidas of Sparta. For teasing so _fucking much_.”

Laughing, breathlessly and still trying to blink the stars out of his eyes, he takes her hand in his own and squeezes. “Admit it, Kassandra, you liked it.”

Her eyes slide away from his as her smile turns more contemplative and a curious pink splashes across her cheeks. As no words seem to be forthcoming, he supposes he will just have to take that as a yes.

Rolling to his side, he tugs her to him again and kisses her, long, slow, just drinking her in. He moves his fingers through the tangled strands of her hair, smoothing them out of her face, content to lay here with her forever.

“I have to meet my _mater_ for dinner,” she whispers as he pulls back. Her eyes are dark again, lust still threatening to take her over, and as he draws a pattern down her shoulder, she shudders under him. “ _Brasidas._ ”

Laughing, he draws away from her, rolling out of the bed to stretch, hearing a joint or two pop. “I’ll grab a linen, hang on—”

As he pads out of the room, naked as the day he came into this world, he hears her groan in frustration and has to bite back a smile. He’d love nothing more than for her to stay in his bed for as long as she’s staying here, but knows that time spent with Myrrine is precious to her—how could it not be?

Grabbing the cloth off the small cord he’d strung up for drying, he moves back into the bedroom to find her still lounging in his bed, his _stromata_ tucked around her breasts and draped over one leg like it were a dress, leaving her opposite leg bare and enticing.

“Dinner, Kassandra.” Brasidas grins at her, tossing her the linen and walking over to where his _himation_ had been flung at some point, hours earlier. Wrapping himself in it, he comes and sits on the edge of the bed as Kassandra grumbles, dragging herself out of bed.

He can’t help but watch as she stands and stretches, like he did but entirely more graceful. The muscles in her back are fascinating to watch. She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow before moving to grab her smallclothes, slipping the bottoms on and beginning to untangle the _strophion_ , pulled off and left mostly tied in their haste earlier.

As she deftly unties the knot and begins to wrap it around her breasts, he notices the purpling marks of his affection on her collarbone, just under her ribs, the scar at her hip. He reaches forward, barely thinking, and grazes his fingertips over the mark on her hip. It’s a particularly large bruise...he’d spent plenty of time there, after all.

Glancing down, her expression softens for a moment as she studies the mark. “Hardly the first to leave a mark, Brasidas.”

“You’d think you were mauled by an animal. Or a boy who had no sense.” He mutters. “There’s one on your—”

“My _himation_ will cover it, and besides, _mater_ knows I am no child.” She slides her fingers under his chin, the mattress dipping as she kneels down to tilt his head and kiss him. It starts soft, almost sweet, and something in his chest clenches as she deepens the kiss, sliding closer to him. His hands move to hold her against him and there’s luckily (or unluckily?) a shred of his mind left.

“ _Dinner_ , Kassandra.” He whispers against her lips. “I will not have Myrrine come after me for you missing it, no matter how tempting you are.”

Huffing a sigh, she pulls away again and moves to grab her _chiton_ and pulls it over her head. “Tempting, hm?”

His laugh is a short bark, startled at the question. “You surely know.”

“Always nice to hear.” She fastens the _chiton_ at her right shoulder, effectively covering the mark he’d left on her. Grabbing her shoes and _himation_ , she comes to sit back down on the bed, and hesitates, her eyes uncertain as she watches him for a moment. “Dinner shouldn’t take all of my night. We could have a drink?”

Inside, his chest clenches again. Outwardly, he smiles again, easy, as he reaches out and smooths out her hair, beginning to braid it. “Of course, Kassandra.” He takes the proffered leather string from her fingers, and when the braid is finished and tied, he presses a kiss to the side of her neck. “Anytime you want, you are welcome.”

Her sigh is soft, a puff against his forehead as she turns to look where his lips press against her skin again and when he looks up at her, she’s smiling, something softer in her eyes.

* * *

 

He spends the next few hours trying to find his other sandal, having his own dinner and sitting on the steps of his tiny house to watch the children play and the sun set.

And through it all, he keeps thinking about the way his chest tightens when he thinks of her, and how it’s been doing it since her return to Lakonia, but how it’s only gotten worse since he kissed her out by the Eurotas a day ago.

 _A day_. He blinks, and focuses on his _kantharos_ before bringing the cup to his lips to finish off his wine. It felt like more than that, an age ago, when they crashed into each other on the outcropping.

Laughing to himself, he imagines his friends’ (far-flung and war-torn) reactions to him losing his sense of time to a woman. The soldiers would laugh at him. Lagos would smile gently and tell him that’s what happens when you’re in love.

Brasidas chokes at the imagined words, the sweet wine burning as it tries to strangle him. Coughing, he pinches the bridge of his nose and blinks rapidly. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really, not when that feeling has been brewing since he met her inside that burning warehouse, when she took his plan to heart instead of Anthousa’s.

Anthousa. If she could see him now, twisted by his emotions and uncertainty, she’d click her tongue at him and wonder where his bluster was now. Where is the boy she made man?

The screech of an eagle shakes him out of his thoughts (his treacherous, treacherous thoughts) and he instinctively searches the sky for Ikaros and finds him making a landing on the roof across from him, ruffling feathers as he settles in. The bird seems to stare him down, as if giving him a lecture.

 _If you hurt her_. Yes, Brasidas knows. Kassandra turns the corner to move down the street toward him, looking slightly uncomfortable in the deep red _peplos._ But as she sees him, a smile brightens her face, and he knows he will do everything in his power to make sure he never does hurt her.

Standing, he grabs the still full _amphora_ at his side and opens the door for her. “I think I still own another _kantharos_ somewhere. It’s been awhile since I’ve had guests that haven’t immediately dragged me down to the _taverna_.”

Pursing her lips, she smiles as she takes the cup from his hand. “I think we can share, Brasidas.”

Laughing, a little self-deprecatingly, he swiftly fills the cup back up and gestures for her to join him at the table. “How was dinner? Your _mater_?”

“It was...nice.” Kassandra stares down at the _kantharos_ in her hand for a moment before taking a deep drink. “I don’t think I’m used to it still -- her being here, with me. It’s...odd...having someone who cares about you being around. Nearby.”

Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, clamming up. “Not that I grew up alone or without any affection, of course. I just...am used to doing things alone.”

He’s just staring at her, he realizes, watching the way her lips move, the slight downward tilt as she tries to cover a frown, as she keeps her gaze fixed on the table in front of her, as if she’s afraid to look at him, afraid that he might see something other than the mighty eagle-bearing _misthios_ that everyone else sees.

When she opens her mouth to speak again, to fill the silence, and he moves to place his hand over hers, pushing the _kantharos_ out of the way and leans forward to cover her lips with his.

She sighs into his mouth, and it feels like relief. The kiss is short, but once they part, he tugs her hand, pulling her into his lap so he can kiss her again, slowly, his hand sliding to her neck, to hold her there. He can feel the tremble in her arms as her fingers fist into the fabric of his _chiton,_ slanting her mouth over his, deepening it to explore his mouth.

Brasidas isn’t sure he’s ever felt this content. He’s known happiness, of course. He’s not so dramatic to think this is the first moment he’s ever truly known how to be happy, here with her in his arms, but he is _content_. There is nothing pressing on his mind other than the need to feel her, to hold her against him, to taste her, hear her, as if he hadn’t been with her a mere few hours ago.

His free hand slides along the slit of her dress, gripping her thigh to hoist her against him as he stands, moving to press her against the wooden table in front of them. Grabbing the _kantharos_ , he drains it before tossing the cup on the _kline_ across the room.

Her laughter fills his home, his heart, as he leans down to kiss her again, hiking her legs around his waist. Fumbling with the buttons at her shoulder, he eventually gets the fabric down to her waist and starts trailing his kisses along the swell of her breast, fingers hurrying to undo the knot of her _strophion_ and toss the cloth somewhere behind him.

Groaning softly, he moves to lave her breasts with his tongue, scraping his teeth along the pebbled nipples, drawing a soft noise out of her. He reaches the bruised spot at her collarbone from earlier and presses a kiss into the marked skin, a silent apology that makes her shiver under him.

He starts trailing his mouth lower, taking the fabric of her _peplos_ along with him, but she stops him, laughing again and shaking her head, her hair already beginning to unravel from its braid. “Oh, no,” she mutters huskily at him. “You are _not_ driving me insane again.”

She wraps her legs around his waist again and draws him back into her embrace, her hands framing his face as she kisses him again, hard, wanting, needy. Pulling away, she traces his lips with the tip of her tongue before whispering, “I need you, _now_.”

He’s pushing at his _exomis_ , her hands at his belt, and together they toss the clothing to the side, to find later, along with hers. Her hand slips between them, gripping his cock, and as he grips the side of the table, it creaks loudly.

Freezing, Kassandra blinks up at him with dark eyes, humor glinting. “Your table won’t bre—ahh!”

He cuts her off by thrusting into her, one smooth movement, trapping her hand between them and leaning forward to swallow any other noises that may leave her lips. Reaching over her head, he grips the edge of the table, knuckles white as he moves against her.

Bringing her hands to his cheeks, she traces the scar there with her fingers, eyes locked onto his, searching, and he’s drowning in them, lost to her and his chest clenches again. He grits his teeth, biting back the threat of words—he doesn’t know what he would say, but he’s afraid of them anyway, worried what his addled mind might blurt out.

So he buries his face against her neck, pulling himself out of her gaze, breathing deeply like he truly had been drowning, and the action does nothing to ease the ache in his heart. His free hand moves to her flank, tracing the scar along her hip, the bruise under it, and he hitches her leg over his side to press into her deeper, harder.

A sob breaks over him, drawn from her as he moves against her, in her, and her hands slide to his back, her nails biting into his flesh. Bending, he moves to scrape his teeth against her collarbone, dragging over the mark left there hours prior.

He has marked her like her scars mark her, claimed her as his own when she herself is unclaimable. What right does he have to mar her body, a simple man, simple soldier like himself, when she is something _so much more_. _But_ , he thinks as he swallows hard against her neck and tries to brush these feelings of inadequacy off, to focus on the mewls and sighs coming out of her, _hadn’t she given herself freely to him?_

Fingers pull into his hair, forcing his head up and making him look at her. The ring of gold around her pupils is fascinating— like the sun eclipsed, fire in shadow. “Don’t,” she whispers, her lips bruised from their kisses, “You’re thinking too loud, don’t—”

She pulls him down so she can open her mouth under his, claiming. His hand falters at her hip, the table’s edge, and still she smooths her fingers down his neck, holding him in place, not letting him drift away.

This time, when his heart clenches, it’s too much, and this is over too soon and stupidly he thinks: _Anthousa would be disappointed in me_ , and then he’s spilling into Kassandra as she strokes his hair and shoulders with a tenderness that makes him feel lost.

* * *

 

Later, the _kantharos_ of wine is in her hand, her body wrapped in his _himation_ , in his bed, and he thinks, treacherously, that Spartan red looks divine on her.

He takes this time to just drink her in. Look at her, and memorize everything about her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, combed by both her fingers and his. Her grip on the _kantharos_ is relaxed, and when she looks over at him, the golden-hazel of her irises is there, and clear, and he’s overtaken again by how content he is, here, with her.

She offers him the wine, and he gladly takes it, gulping down nearly half the cup. He swipes the drops on his beard with the back of his hand and pauses, grinning behind his hand when she freezes and watches the action.

His hand drops into his lap and then, he winks at her. This is easier, for some reason, than before, even though his heart still clenches when he grabs her knees and tugs her to him, settling between them, parting her, licking, drawing a deep groan out of her throat.

 _Just accept it_ , whispers the voice that sounds like Lagos, _just acknowledge that you’re in love with her, and it’ll get easier._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another huge thank you to my almost-twin, alethiometry, who is my rock as i write. <3
> 
> some damned plot gets up in here today. rude.

He wakes later, in the deep dark of night with arms flung above his head, from a dream that he cannot remember, and he cannot recall if it was good or bad.

 _No matter_ , he thinks and tries to push himself into a sitting position and just now notices the weight across his chest.

 _You’re going soft, soldier._ Great, now one of the voices in his head sounds like Anthousa, and he wonders what he did to the gods to deserve the voices of his former best friend and ex-lover tormenting him.

Laying back down, he gathers Kassandra into his arms, pushing her hair out of her face to watch her sleep for a moment. Here, relaxation takes her over, Hypnos weaving his spell just for her. She’s limp, completely surrendered to sleeping here, with him, and he wonders how often she’s truly able to sleep like this: unworried, unfettered.

The joy that she trusts him enough, expects him to keep her safe, watch her back, wake her if something happens -- any of those, all of those -- is enough to drown out the loud thoughts of _love_ , and the worry that it is instead _desperation_ , at least long enough to fall back asleep.

* * *

 

This time when he wakes up, it is morning and she is gone.

Rubbing his eyes, he sits up, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest that says _she woke up with you, looked upon you, and found you wanting_ because it will do nothing for him. He is stronger than whatever sad feeling is trying to burst its way out of him.

Reaching for his _chiton_ and pulling it over his head, he looks for his _himation_ and it is missing. Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair and wanders down the stairs and --

The _himation_ is there, on his _kline_ , but it is wrapped around Kassandra still, just her head and hand peeking out of it as she holds the _kantharos_ to her lips. His breath leaves him in a rush and her head snaps up before she brightens with a grin.

“Sorry,” she whispers, like she doesn’t want to break the quiet of the early morning. “I couldn’t sleep anymore, but you looked so peaceful--”

She breaks off, as in the span of her words, he’s crossed the room, cupped her face with his hands and kissed the wine off of her lips. When he pulls away, she’s blinking slowly at him, looking at him in a way that makes him want to blush, and he’s suddenly unsure, his confidence fleeing. Before he can take a step back though, the hand not holding the cup shoots out and grabs his, pulling him onto the _kline_.

Tucking herself into his side, her fingers idly stroke at his knee and they just sit there, for a long moment, in the quiet morning. Finally, she tilts her head up to look at him, “I have to go to the Temple of Dionysos Kolonatas today. I promised that I’d tell the story of Perseus to some children…”

She trails off and he can’t stop himself from grinning, his shoulders shaking in laughter, and she glares at him, slapping his stomach as she pushes off of him. “What? I am an _excellent_ teacher.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He follows her, tugging her body back to his, burying his nose in her neck, his cheeks burning from the force of his smile. “I’m just wondering how in the world they managed to rope you into that.”

“ _Mater_ says I need to help the people here,” she grumbles, her fingers lacing with his where they rest at her stomach. “That maybe that will...help the kings give us our _malákes_ house back.”

Drawing his lips down the curve of her shoulder, the _himation_ slips from where it’s wrapped around her. “Well,” he whispers against her skin, “If they don’t, you’re welcome to live here.”

She freezes in his arms and he immediately wishes he could take back the words that hang in the air between them. _Too much. Too soon. You’re an idiot, Brasidas, this isn’t love, it’s desperation, you fucking idiot--_

“I don’t think my mother would want to live here,” she whispers, relaxing back into him. “We’re quickly having sex on nearly everything. There’d be no place for her to sit.”

He holds his breath, hands still frozen on her stomach, his mouth against her skin, and he blinks, unsure of what is happening. Kassandra turns to look at him, the _himation_ pulling down further, exposing her collarbones, the bruising there. Her eyes are heavy, and there’s a little smile on her lips as she leans forward. “Me, however? Well. If the kings don’t give us back the house...maybe I’ll do just that.”

Pressing forward to close the tiny gap between them, Brasidas kisses her, slow, exploring, his hand coming to rest at her neck, groaning into the kiss when her nails scratch at his head. Again, he thinks of how he could just stay here forever.

Maybe, he thinks giddily, he’ll tell the kings to shove it, and he’ll go wherever Kassandra goes. It’s a nice enough thought, though one he will never act upon.

Her hands slide to his chest and she uses him as leverage to push herself up over him, the _himation_ sliding to her waist, exposing her bare chest and he feels his pulse quicken, his cock twitch to life.

She’ll be the death of him, he’s sure of it. But just as sure: it would be worth it.

Her mouth leaves open-mouthed, wet kisses as she explores her way down his body, pushing at his _exomis_ until it’s up over his arms, and then the floor. With a feral grin, she latches onto a scar at his collarbone, sucking hard, leaving a mark that will match hers.

Groaning, his head falls back against the arm of the _kline_ , lost to the feel of her lips as they travel down his chest, the bite of her nails in his hips.

Sliding off the _kline_ , Kassandra pulls at his legs until she’s kneeled between them. Her hands slide up his thighs, and her voice is a soft whisper up at him, urging him to look at her. “Brasidas.”

This must be the payback she was threatening, the day before, because the way she’s staring up at him from between his legs, her eyes hooded, lips parted and moistened by her tongue, he’s not sure he’s going to make it.

“You know,” she murmurs conversationally, as she drops her eyes down to his cock, and licks her lips again and _holy shit she’s going to kill me, I truly believe that she’s about to fucking end me_ , and he groans softly at the sight. “I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday morning…”

She hums, seemingly satisfied with the debauched expression on his face, and leans forward to swallow him down as far as she can.

“Fuck--” His hands flex at his sides and he tries his best to not let his hips buck up into her. Her fingers are gentle as they stroke at his thighs, running over sleep-creases and the scars she finds there, before moving one of her hands to his manhood, wrapping her fingers under her mouth as she slides up, twirling her tongue around the tip, before pulling away to blow on him softly.

“ _Gods dammit, Kassandra--_ ” He grinds out, reaching for her hair, twisting it into a bun on top of her head so he can see her face. She’s just grinning at him, like a fucking lioness going in for the kill, and she takes him into her mouth again, straining to take him deeper than before.

A flash of white burns across his vision when he touches the back of her throat and then suddenly she’s gone, just her hand there, stroking him as he gasps, trying to reach for her, desperate to pull her up against him, to take her there, now--

\--but she ducks his hands, like he had done to her the morning before, and his groan is more of a whine now, strangled in the back of his throat as she twists her fist around him. His hand tightens in her hair, and she hums a little warning, but that _does not help_ , the vibrations running through him like a lightning bolt.

The muscles in his thighs ache from their constant trembling, his fingers flex in her hair and still he cannot look away from her, cannot stop watching the way she holds him in her hand, sucking, lapping, twirling her tongue. He’s pretty sure he’s nearly bitten through his lip, and, as she moves her hand to his leg again, taking him fully into her mouth once more, he sees stars. His groan is ravaged, deep and rumbling from his chest, nearly a sob and he finally has to look away, letting his head drop back on the edge of the _kline_ , his breathing shallow and heavy.

Her fingers cup him, tugging, as she swallows him down, the contractions of her throat making his fingers tighten in her hair again, but this time she doesn’t seem to care. She’s too busy sliding up and down his cock with her mouth, desperately drawing filthy curses and moans out of him.

“Kass--” He gasps out, one hand sliding to her shoulder to squeeze, trying to get her to stop. “If you don’t stop--”

She merely blinks up at his whining, with her mouth full of him, eyes glassy as she moves up, just a little, scraping her teeth along his length--just barely--but it’s just enough, and as she slides back down and _swallows_ , the movement makes his vision go black and then--he’s coming, hips stuttering away from her mouth, his hand tight in her hair.

When he comes back to himself, he’s not sure how long it’s been. Kassandra is still at his feet, wiping the corners of her mouth with a satisfied grin, looking absolutely _wrecked_ , and he’s overcome with affection for her.

( _Love_ , Lagos whispers in his mind. _Just say it_.)

He hooks his hands under her arms and hauls her to him, pressing her body against his, crashing their lips together in a passionate kiss. He can taste himself and he groans again into her mouth. He can’t keep his hands still -- they wander up her back, down her sides, grip the flesh of her ass, hold her there against him, until they’re both panting and gasping for air.

She pulls back, her hair a wild mess from sleep and his hands and grins lazily at him, quirking her eyebrows in a silent question. He laughs, breathlessly, and lets his head fall back against the _kline_ again. “I can’t go into a temple now,” his voice is hoarse and raspy, “I’ll be struck down on the spot.”

“Eh,” Kassandra shrugs. “It’s the Temple of Dionysos. Pretty sure he’d just clap.” She sits up and moves to the side, drawing a slight whine from his throat. She grabs the _kantharos_ and holds it to his lips.

Drinking gratefully, he slides his hand down her back, keeping her close. “When do you go,” he whispers against the cup, and when she pulls it away to put it down, he nuzzles closer to her again. “To the temple, when do you go?”

“Now,” She gives him a sad look. “You should stay here, I know you didn’t sleep well.”

Shaking his head, Brasidas stretches his arms up over his head, hearing the joints pop and crack back into place. “No, I have to go to the kings. They’ll be giving me my orders soon.”

“What a coincidence,” Kassandra grabs his _himation_ and tugs it around herself before getting up to toss his clothing at him. “They asked to see me too. _Mater_ got the messenger right before I got there. I guess they’ve decided _something_.”

She ducks down to look at the small circle of polished silver on his wall, and winces at the state of her hair. “Busy day for us both, I guess. Oh!”

Whirling around, she moves back to him, reaching out to cup his chin, “Barnabas and Herodotus said for you to come to the ship with me tonight. They got something good to eat apparently, and they’d like to meet you.”

Grinning up at her, he takes her hand and squeezes, “Been talking about me, Kassandra?”

“They hover like mother hens. Demand to know who keeps stealing me away.” Her gestures are flippant, but her tone is all warm affection for the two old men on her ship. _More of a father than some I know_ , she had murmured a few nights ago.

“I would love to.” Grinning at her, he pulls her down to him for one more kiss before letting her go. “You should probably get dressed before you go tell the children stories.”

* * *

The day drags on.

They had parted earlier with one last kiss, a squeeze of hands, and she was gone, rushing off toward the docks at Gytheion, to change her clothes, run her comb through her tangled tresses (though they had done their best to comb her hair with their fingers -- even managed to get it back into a braid), before meeting with the teacher at Dionysos’ temple.

He, on the other hand, had gone straight to the palace by way of the _agora,_ stopping to grab pomegranates from Linos. He idly slices one of the fruits open as he walks, wiping the red juices on his cloak.

They’re red, to cover the color of blood, after all. Pomegranate juice can’t be any worse.

The _ephors_ and generals greet him as he walks into the palace and he stops before the kings -- Archidamos, with his gray hair and wise eyes, and Pausanias, always aloof and somewhat cold -- and offers them a bow from his waist, his eyes trained on the ground.

“Brasidas! Well met, my boy.” Archidamos steps down from the dais to clasp his forearms. There is no such familiarity with Pausanias, who merely nods at him.

“My kings.” Brasidas nods to them both, moving to stand off to the side, watching as people come to petition the diarchs, the pleas and conversation washing over him like a breeze.

Eventually the line thins, and Archidamos waves him over, a few of the ephors standing near him. He sighs and turns, waiting for Pausanias, a flash of annoyance on the older king’s face. He hates to be kept waiting, Brasidas knows.

Finally, Pausanias extricates himself from the ephors speaking to him and stands next to Archidamos, hands clasped behind his back. “Brasidas.” His voice is warm, but it doesn’t seem sincere. “We have orders for you.”

Straightening, Brasidas stands at attention, his back straight, his arms coming to rest at the small of his back. “And what are they, my kings?”

Arkadia. There’s an issue there: war efforts are not going as they should -- something is holding up supply lines, needs a quiet hand, and Brasidas is the one to take care of it. A resounding victory in Methone before this, laurel set on his head, and his exemplary service in Korinth have added more achievements to his list. He will leave by next week.

He’s not surprised -- there were whispers of Athenians pressing in on the borders of Arkadia -- but he is disappointed. It’s silly, but he’d hoped he’d have more time here, in Sparta, with Kassandra. The good news is he may be able to see Lagos while he’s there, and perhaps quiet this persistent voice in his head.

They’re interrupted by a messenger swinging the doors open with a bang, out of breath and rushing in to warn the kings: the Eagle Bearer and her mother are coming. Brasidas has to turn toward the wall to hide his grin. The kings need _warning_ of Kassandra’s arrival. What a strange time he is lucky enough to live in.

The room quiets when Kassandra and her mother walk in, and everyone turns to stare at them. Brasidas can’t help but think that these are the idiots who run this damn country, and they can’t even act normal in front of these women.

Then again, these women aren’t just any women. They are of a bloodline that is ancient, the power still coursing through their veins. Myrrine is every inch the daughter of Leonidas, with her head held high, her spear at her back, still dressed in a _peplos,_ her white _epiblema_ wrapped around her waist, as if she were going to the _agora_.

And Kassandra...she’s changed into her armor, the one with the red scarf around her neck, her bow and arrow slung over her back (he’d _love_ to see one of these old men, hell, even one of the soldiers, say something to her about her very un-Spartan weapon), her _xiphos_ at her side, and of course, Leonidas’ spear tucked carefully into the leathers of her quiver. Ikaros caws at him from her shoulder, ruffling his feathers and tilting his head.

Ever calm, Kassandra reaches to stroke the bird’s feathers, whispering something to him. As she does so, she locks eyes with Brasidas, and winks.

He takes a deep breath, and rolls his eyes at her, before stepping forward. “My kings,” he announces, bowing at the waist to the women, and then again to the kings before him. “Myrrine and Kassandra.”

“Here to petition for your house again, Myrrine?” Archidamos takes a step back and sits on his _thronos_ , as if he wants to put space between them. Which, judging from the slight crook in his nose, and the way the king moves his hand to cover it, that may actually be the reason.

“My daughter has done what both of you asked, and helped the people of Sparta and her surrounding cities. She fought off Athenians on our own soil, when they sought to trick our soldiers with a Trojan horse.” Myrrine steps forward, her voice carrying in the small room.

Brasidas shoots Kassandra a look -- Trojan horse? She’d mentioned, the other day, about the Athenians on the beach, but left out that particular detail. Shrugging, Kassandra turns her attention back to her mother.

“She stopped a _helots_ rebellion brewing right under your noses. And yet,” Myrrine smiles at the kings, but it is all teeth and no kindness. “I’m sure you have more to ask of her.”

“Indeed,” Pausanias sneers, stepping off the dais to circle around Kassandra, looking her up and down. It makes Brasidas bristle, the way the king’s eyes linger in certain places. Ikaros caws loudly, making the king jump, which is a slight consolation. “The Olympics near. And our _pankration_ champion needs escorting to Elis. Get him there, _misthios_ , and bring back the wreath for Sparta.”

He steps back, his hands clasped together.

“An escort?” Kassandra shifts, and looks like she’s desperately trying to not roll her eyes. “It will be done.”

“Ah,” Pausanias raises a finger, cutting off Archidamos’ annoyed squawk. “But it is not one wreath you will ensure Sparta wins. It is is all of them. Win the Olympics for Sparta, _misthios_.”

Brasidas doesn’t like the way he says that -- _misthios --_ like it is an insult, and he can tell Kassandra feels it too, but for once, she keeps her fire tamped down inside of her and gives the king a smile that is just like her mother’s. “Of course.”

“Wait --” Archidamos stands up again, shaking his head. “Two kings, two tasks. We have forces in Boeotia, readying for battle there. Win Boeotia for Sparta. Push back those damned Athenians.” His gaze lingers between mother and daughter. “Do these tasks, and you shall have your citizenship.”

He waves his hand at Brasidas. “You may go. Escort them out, Brasidas.”

The younger soldier bows again, at the waist, and falls into step with Kassandra and her mother. The ephors crowd the walkway and his shoulder bumps into her. Seeing this as an opportunity, Ikaros hops from Kassandra’s shoulder to his, causing her to scoff.

As soon as they’re out of the palace, she crosses her arms and glares at her bird. “Traitor. See if he gives you any treats--”

She breaks off as Brasidas takes the uneaten half of his pomegranate from earlier out of his _pharmaka_ bag around his waist and offers it to the eagle. Myrrine laughs, and curls her arm around her daughter’s.

“When will you leave, lamb?”

Still staring at Ikaros and Brasidas, Kassandra sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll be here another week at least -- we pushed the _Adrestia_ to her limits to get here, not to mention the _malàkes_ pirates. Plus, I promised Barnabas I’d give him at least four days’ notice this time before shipping out. For supplies.”

His heart leaps in his chest. He’s not due to leave for Arkadia until the next week anyway; this gives him more time with her. Carefully, he keeps his attention focused on Ikaros, who is happily munching at his pomegranate.

“What will you do while I’m gone, _mater_?”

Myrrine sighs, and crosses her arms in a fashion that makes her look _so much_ like Kassandra. “I got a note before we came here. A clue about a cultist in Arkadia. I’ll travel there after you’ve gone.”

“I’ve been assigned to Arkadia as well. I could escort you,” Brasidas murmurs, still looking at the eagle. Then, her words sink in: “Wait, cultist?”

The air grows heavy with unspoken thoughts, the glare between daughter and mother, the confusion in Brasidas' own expression. And then: 

“I thought you would have told him,” Myrrine hisses at Kassandra, eyes wide. Kassandra, shaking her head, holds her hands up as if to ward off her mother’s fear.

“I haven’t...had a chance.” She murmurs, reaching out to Ikaros, urging him to hop onto her arm. “Go, Ikaros, fly while you have the chance. Before you become fat on pomegranate.”

The bird chuffs at her, ruffles his feathers and takes off of her arm. Watching him, Kassandra sighs. “ _Mater_ , I will find you later. Tomorrow. I’m staying on the _Adrestia_ tonight. Barnabas says he got something good for dinner, wants me there. It’ll be alright. I’ll tell him.” She turns to touch her mother’s arms, something soft and gentle in her eyes that does nothing to cover the fear shining under them. “ _Hygíaine, mater_.”

Myrrine watches her for a moment and then nods, leaning forward to kiss her daughter’s cheek before giving Brasidas a nod as well. She turns and makes her way down the street, toward the _agora_.

“Kassandra, what is--”

“Not here, Brasidas. Take me back to your home.” She rummages through her pack for a moment, searching -- then, satisfied, she closes it again. “I would not say this outside the palace.”

She starts walking and he hurries to catch up with her, trying to act like this is just a normal afternoon between friends, for they have been seen walking the city together a few times since her arrival in Sparta.

But the energy is charged in a different way -- usually it is the spark of touching, needing, hurrying home to strip everything away and leave just them. But today, something hangs between them. Something he does not know. Something she does not want to say.

When they get in, he closes the door behind them and she immediately pours herself a _kanthara_ of wine. Her jaw is tight and he longs to kiss her there, to help her relax, but he cannot move when she looks at him.

Fear. She’s scared of something, because of him. For him.

“There is a traitorous group here in Hellas. The Monger was one of them -- you’ve seen their work first hand.”

“You mentioned this, yes.” He nods, shifting uncomfortably under her stare.

Kassandra nods, quick and crosses her arms over her chest, gaze dropping to her feet. “One of the kings is a cultist. And they’ve ordered your death.”

He’s afraid he didn’t hear her correctly. One of the Kings of Sparta -- men he’s fought with side-by-side, trusted his life to -- is a _cultist_ , and wants him dead. That cannot be right.

But no, when he focuses on her face again he sees the fear there, in eyes that shine with an undercurrent of emotion that he does not dare to name.

( _Love,_ Lagos whispers helpfully.)

“I assume you have proof,” he whispers, hands reaching out to grip the table in front of him. She silently takes a thin scroll of _papyros_ out of her pack and hands it to him.

Yes, it’s there. Clear as day. _On his shield_. Brasidas closes his eyes against the words, taking a deep breath. And then: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Those aren’t the words he’d wanted to say. He’d wanted to say something that would wipe that look off her face, and now it’s a thousand times worse. She looks terrified, like she’s scared he’s going to tell her to get out and never come back. His hands itch to take her into his arms but he needs to know first.

_Why didn’t you tell me sooner?_

She looks away and shakes her head. “I...it was selfish. I wanted.” Her breath leaves her in a rush and she grimaces. “I wanted you to myself. I thought, ‘I am here, I can protect him from whatever happens.’”

Leaning forward, she grips the table at the opposite end of him and stares at the wood grain. “But I am leaving, and you will be out there on your own, and this little fantasy world I am living in must come to an end. I know you are angry for not telling you but--”

“I’m not angry, Kassandra.” He whispers, moving around the table to stand at her side. “I don’t blame you, even. This has been...I…”

The words don’t come, even now, staring down the reality of it all. So he doesn’t talk anymore, just tilts his head, rests his hand on her neck and pulls her to him in a desperate kiss. She melts into him, grabbing onto his armor, tucking her fingers under it at his shoulder.

Pulling away, he rests his head against hers and she sighs, her fingers sliding to cup his neck. “I would not send you out there without all of the knowledge. There is a cultist in Arkadia, I’m sure there’s one in Boeotia and I would not be surprised if the Olympics themselves are run by the entirety of the fucking Cult of Kosmos.”

Her voice wavers as she bites out the last words and he moves to stroke her cheek, her hair, neck, anywhere he can reach that is skin and comfort.

“The Cult of Kosmos,” he whispers against her cheek, and snorts. “High and mighty, aren’t they?”

“All-reaching.” Kassandra pulls away, pushing her hands against her hair, catching the flyaways and smoothing them back. “They have...their greatest weapon. Brasidas,” she looks at him, eyes shining with unshed tears and she shrugs, helplessly. He hates this -- hates that she’s looking at him like this -- that he has nothing he can do or say to fix it. “It’s my brother. Alexios. He survived Mount Taygetos. They took him, they _tortured_ him--”

She blinks, and the tears fall onto her cheeks and he wants so badly to wipe them away but he is rooted to the ground. Both children survived.

The kings obviously do not know this -- but no, that’s not right. One of them does, because one of them is a traitor to Sparta and has ordered his death. So which one?

He takes a deep breath, reaching out for her but she shakes her head and chews on the inside of her lip. His chest clenches again -- this time with fear, longing, worry.

“He was a baby,” She whispers, looking down at her hands. “He was baby and the Cult of Kosmos ordered him to be killed because they were scared of us. Of Leonidas’ blood. But he was just a _baby--”_

Spurred into action, he crosses the small kitchen to crush her to him, her weapons and armor clashing together in his embrace. He doesn’t know what to say, has no words to make this better. How could he? Her brother has been twisted into a monster -- she hadn’t needed to say the words, he could hear it in the tremble of fear in her voice, the worry. She’s scared of what they’ve turned Alexios into.

She’s scared of what they’ll make him do.

Pressing light kisses into her hair, he holds her until she stops shaking in his arms, until she sighs, ragged and defeated, her head resting against his shoulder.

Outside, children play. Ikaros squawks from the rooftop of some nearby house: a noise of annoyance, not warning. The sun starts its slow march behind the hills. Life in Sparta goes on, while time here is frozen.

Finally she stands straight, her eyes dry, the only sign of her crying is the puffiness around them and the tears on his shoulder. He kisses her forehead and when he pulls away, her eyes are closed, jaw tight. “I am going to kill them, Brasidas,” she whispers, blinking up at him with a fierceness that leaves him breathless. “Every single one of them, for what they’ve done to my family.”

“If I am able,” He whispers back, cupping her face and rubbing his thumbs along the skin of her cheeks. “I will be there to help you.”

Pressing forward, he kisses her, a hard press of lips on lips and he can taste the salt of tears. She sighs into his mouth, pulling him closer. A moment, then he pulls away and looks out the window. Twilight now, the buzz of cicadas rising in the air. So much has happened in the last three days; he feels like a different man now.

“The _Adrestia_ ,” she murmurs, drawing his attention and he notices now that she looks so damn _tired_. “Dinner with Barnabas. I promised.”

“Then let’s go.” Reaching to take her hand in his, he pulls it to his mouth to press a kiss against the knuckles, and her thumb jerks out to swipe against his lower lip. “Let’s go and enjoy whatever it is he has found for dinner, and be merry in the presence of your friends. Worrying now will not help. We will return to this with clear heads tomorrow.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the smut in this chapter is actually almost fade-to-black. i'll make it up to y'all, i promise :P  
> also a bit shorter, so i'll have the final chapter posted tomorrow probably <3

Barnabas calls out to them as they near the ship, his voice excited as Ikaros circles above him to land on his shoulder. “Kassandra! Come on up, hurry, hurry!”

Brasidas can feel the tension in Kassandra’s body dissipate without even touching her. She’s been tense since the meeting with the kings; not even the presence of her mother had relaxed her. But here, as she climbs the plank to stand on the deck of her ship, she is in her element. Crew members greet her and she replies by name to each and every one of them. 

“I wonder what he got,” Kassandra murmurs, looking around. “And I wonder if he just cooked it over the brazier on the deck.”

The old man is waving them up to the captain’s deck, and Brasidas can hear the other — Herodotus, he reminds himself — scolding Ikaros for trying to sneak a morsel. 

“My dear,” Barnabas grabs Kassandra’s shoulders, his good eye wide with mirth. “You’ll never guess what we caught this morning!”

“A fish, probably,” Kassandra grins, reaching up to clasp the hands on her shoulders. “Or was it a siren? Please tell me we are not eating a monster of Poseidon.”

Herodotus looks up from his seat on the bench and smiles at her fondly. “You know he’d be much more excited if we’d caught that.”

Moving over to the historian, Kassandra clasps his arm when he stands, her smile fond, soft. She’s happier here, with them, Brasidas notices. The tension that bleeds away under his hands, in his house, is gone here too. The trust there, between these two old men and Kassandra, and love, fondness, is palpable. 

Gesturing for him, Kassandra sweeps her hand out. “Barnabas, Herodotus, this is Brasidas. Probably the only friend I have in Sparta.” 

Giving his customary half bow, he greets the men and takes the proffered seat next to Herodotus. 

The historian reaches out and clasps arms with Brasidas, as Barnabas scurries to go get plates for his mystery meal. “So, Brasidas,” Herodotus’ smile is kind but there is a steel in his eyes as he glances over at Kassandra. “What is it you do for Sparta? I assume active duty?”

_ Ah. _ While Brasidas has never been on the receiving end of this sort of interrogation before, he has heard of it, from newly-wed soldiers in the barracks. Is he good enough for Kassandra, or is he wasting her time? 

Clearing his throat, he nods, glancing up at Kassandra as she follows Barnabas around, laughing at whatever the old sailor is saying. “Ah, yes. I am a general, for Sparta’s armies.”

_ I am not what she hates about Sparta. I am not the rot that festers, I am fighting against it, I will not let this country take her down-- _

Herodotus hums, and flips his  _ papyros _ over, making another note on it. Curious, Brasidas tilts his head to look and the historian smiles at him. “Stories of where we’ve been so far. If you listened to Barnabas, you’d think we’d slayed mythical monsters and outrun the kraken. Alas, however amazing, Kassandra is still but a woman.” 

And he fully gets it, now, why Kassandra is enamored with her companions. They see--where others see a goddess, a mythical creature--the woman. Just a woman trying to find and reunite her family.

Voices interrupt their quiet reverie, and Brasidas lifts his head to watch Kassandra climbing the stairs again, Barnabas at her heels, her hands full with two heavy  _ amphorae _ of wine. Finishing his climb, Barnabas presents his dinner with a flourish. “Bluefin tuna! Do you know how hard it is to catch one of these, Kassandra? They fight like sharks!”

“We truly could have used your skills out there,” Herodotus smiles gently, taking a plate from Barnabas. “How was the meeting with the kings?”

Kassandra shakes her head, and accepts her plate. “We have a few things to do. Win a war in Boeotia--”

“Easy!” Barnabas exclaims, grinning. “One look at the Eagle Bearer and the Athenians will be running away!”

Kassandra winces at Barnabas’ tone, his words, and glances over at Herodotus, who has busied himself with scooping up a bite of fish. Brasidas watches an entire conversation happen silently between them, but still is unsure of the words said. Blinking, he takes a bite -- and raises his eyebrows in surprise. The fish is excellent, cooked to perfection, even with few tools here on the  _ Adrestia _ . He’s eager to eat more, tired of dried meats -- or, more often: whatever slop the  _ syssiteia _ was serving that day. 

Looking away from Herodotus, Kassandra shakes her head. “Just wait. The other task is to escort the  _ pankration _ champion to the Olympics. And then make sure that Sparta  _ wins _ the Olympics somehow.”

Bouncing on his feet, the old sea captain throws his hands up with a grin. “The Olympics! Kassandra, it’s been a dream to go there! You truly are a gift!”

“I, too, have always wanted to witness the event.” Herodotus pipes up. “Amazing, that we will get to do so, together.”

“They somehow managed to miss the part where I have to make sure that Sparta wins,” Kassandra mutters with a good-natured smile. “But sure, let’s just be excited.”

_ Together _ . Herodotus’ simple use of the word strikes Brasidas like an arrow. The three of them will go to Elis, will witness history at the Olympics (he has no problem imagining Kassandra somehow making sure Sparta wins), and enjoy the parties and the games  _ together _ . It is easy for them. They will always be behind, beside,  _ near _ Kassandra. 

And him? He will always be tied to Lakonia, to Sparta, to this damned city that took everything away from her. He wonders if there’s truly a world where they  _ can _ be together. He swallows the bite of fish thickly, jaw twitching. 

What is he doing? Is he doing what Herodotus fears? Wasting her time? He so badly wants to make this world a better place, to carve a spot in it where he can be with her, where her worries are gone. But is he just making it worse, in the long run? He knows Sparta’s rot runs deep -- isn’t he just part of it? 

Her hand squeezes his elbow and he blinks back to the world around him. She’s smiling at him, happiness truly shining through her eyes as Barnabas begins a tale of a Cyclops he once saw on some island far out in the Aegean, and Brasidas sees Herodotus roll his eyes in the back.

She’s invited him, here, to the family she created. Her mother is special, of course, because she is  _ her mother _ , and she loves her so much, he can see it -- but here, there is the sense of peace, of a chosen family. When she’s here, she does not think of mountains and screams of mercy from her mother. She does not remember her father’s hand letting her go and the plummeting drop to what should have been death. 

She will never say those words, but he can read them in her eyes, and he can see she wants him to be here -- part of this chosen group, small and trusted. He reaches out and squeezes her hand just to touch her skin. She is a light in this dark world, and he cannot help but be drawn to her.

And now, with the way she looks at him as they listen to Barnabas, he thinks she may feel the same.

* * *

 

They wander back to his home, slowly, meandering, feeling the pleasant buzz of good wine and full stomachs. Her fingers are entwined with his, her smile soft and persistent. Somewhere above them, Ikaros chirps as he circles the empty streets below. 

It is a moment, frozen in time, where they are still high on the happiness of good food and better company, where he spoke with Herodotus about the histories of Greece, of Leonidas, of the places they’d both seen. He’d watched Barnabas and Kassandra sing a shanty, off tune and perfectly beautiful, and when they’d left the ship, he felt a tug at his heart. 

But now, as they walk quietly back to his house, the darkness looms over them. The conversation in the kitchen, the paranoia that someone could be stalking him even now, to take him out (even though he  _ knows _ that won’t happen...he would be killed in battle, made to look like another casualty, sent home to his city on his shield). 

The house is in view when Kassandra stops, her fingers tightening on his. “Can we just...enjoy tonight? Until the morning? When the shadows are gone and we can see everything in the light of day?”

He brings his hand up to her check, sliding down to rest at her neck. “Of course.” 

She sighs into his kiss, shuddering and full of an emotion she hasn’t named. Pulling away, he presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls her towards the house, inside the door. They skip the wine and move straight up the narrow stairs until they’re in his bedroom. 

He pulls her armor from her, gently, placing each piece down on the floor with care until she’s just in her  _ chiton _ and then he does the same for himself. Pulling her down to the bed, he wraps his arms around her until she’s flush against him, and presses kisses to the freckles on her face. 

Laughing softly, she cups his face, fingers scratching at his beard. She’s looking at him with that emotion again -- hooded eyes, blinking slowly, something like  _ love _ in them, but he doesn’t dare comment on it. He doesn’t want to break this -- this fantasy world they may be living in -- even though he knows it will come crashing down around them soon enough. 

Kissing the scar at her nose, eyebrow and then finally the one at her lips, he slides his fingers up her tunic, pressing it up and over her arms, smallclothes following until she’s bare before him. He takes his time, like he tried to do the other morning when he’d learned every inch of her.

There are places on her body he thinks he knows pretty well now -- the bruised love-bite at her collarbone is given extra attention, the scar at her ribs is kissed, the swell of her breast, the ridge of her hip and the scar that is there. She sighs above him, moving her legs so he’s settled between them. 

Her hand comes to stroke his jaw, looking down at him and his breath catches in his throat and that damned voice in his head urges him to tell her  _ \-- I’d do anything for you, to keep you safe, here, happy, smiling at me and looking at me like that -- _ but he presses his mouth to her stomach to keep the words from spilling out. 

Sliding her hand down to his shoulder, she urges him back up to her, and he listens, surging over her to press his forehead against hers and they lay there, her naked body pressed against his still clothed (which is ridiculous, he thinks, because he wants to feel her against him, but he can’t find the will to extricate himself from her arms).

Together, they enjoy just a quiet moment -- no cult, no Olympics, no war, no Arkadia. Just them, here, now. She strokes her fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes, burying his face in her neck. 

Some time passes and with the darkness of night, he’s not sure if it’s minutes or hours. But she shivers in his arms and reaches for the  _ stromata _ but she stops him, instead pulling at the knot of his belt, pushing the fabric of his  _ chiton  _ over his head.

She rolls them, and she settles on top of him, silently moving down his body to press kisses into his scars, a mirror of his actions earlier. He feels himself twitch to life under her ministrations and he catches her quick grin against the scar under his ribs. 

“We match,” Kassandra murmurs against his skin, sitting up to point at the scar under her own ribs, one he knows, can trace his tongue along it blindly, but never noticed that it’s in near the same spot as his own. He ghosts his fingers over the ridge before gripping the back of her neck to pull her back down to him, kissing her hard.

Rolling her hips against his, she reaches between them to grasp him, guiding his cock into her, and when she moans, he swallows the noise against her lips. They move slowly, this time. Every breath a give and take, never straying far from kissing range.

Planting a foot on the bed, he topples her over, rolling after her, filling her again and pressing his forehead against hers. She arches into him, letting her head fall back and he can’t help but draw his tongue down the length of her throat. 

_ She’s perfect _ , he thinks, as her breathing quickens and her whine fills his ears. He wishes, for half a second, that they were different people, that their lives were simpler. That they could simply have this forever and not be thrown to opposite ends of the Greek world. 

But he feels bad almost immediately, for even thinking the thoughts. He would not want her to be any other way and he could not fathom a life unlike the one he’s lived. 

He kisses her again, holds her through her orgasm, follows her quickly after. When he tries to move she keeps him there, hand stroking his neck, lips pressed into his shoulder, and this time it’s not Lagos’ voice that tells him things. It’s his own and he knows, completely sure that this is not desperation at all. 

It  _ is _ love, and he doesn’t know what to do with that revelation. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we've come, to the end. I want to thank each and every one of you for the comments, the kudos, the support. This was the longest fic I've written to date, and I was so nervous about posting it and you all made me feel special and welcome. 
> 
> There is a sequel in the works, and it will be posted as soon as it's been hashed out, poked and prodded. 
> 
> A very special thank you, again, to @alethiometry, my partner in crime and almost-twin. Without her, y'all would see a lot more errors. <3

He’s busy most days, getting everything together for Arkadia. There are spy reports to read, military movements to study, and the words start to swim before his eyes.

Kassandra is also busy, he knows. She’s complained about oil and trainers, overzealous generals and the asking price for supplies, every night she’s come to him.

And the sweetest thing, he thinks, is that she still comes to him, every night. They’d stayed in bed the morning after dinner on the _Adrestia_ , and she’d told him more of the cult, of the leader of Athens’ death. Seeing her brother there as he slit the old man’s throat.

Of her friend, from Kephallonia -- Phoibe, he remembers -- missing after the chaos, presumed dead. Her fingers had shook as she took the cup of wine from him, but he offered no platitudes. Loss of a friend, of a child, is always hard -- he’s seen many die throughout his years -- but worse still is when someone offers you an apology that only makes you angry.

The sky is bright and clear when he’s let out of his duties and he’s surprised to find her standing outside the palace, leaning against a column, waiting for him.

“What are you doing here?” He murmurs, coming to stand next to her, ushering her into the shadows to press a kiss against her jaw.

“I’m free for the rest of the day. I figured I should brief Sparta’s greatest before he embarks on a long journey with someone’s mother.” Kassandra is grinning at him, ducking away from his hands. "They’ll see, and then they’ll never trust you again.”

  
Laughing, Brasidas clasps his hands behind his back and eyes a few of the ephors also leaving. He’s sure that if they haven’t noticed now how his mind wanders and his gaze stays fixed to her when she’s there, then they won’t notice much at all. “So, briefing me on your mother. Home?”

She shakes her head and instead leads him to where they first kissed: a field against the rocky, tall hills, the Eurotas flowing beside them. She’s not in her armor, he realizes belatedly, just a simple dark _chiton_ and sandals and it makes her look so much younger. Carefree, maybe.

Sitting in the tall grass amidst the Lakonian poppies, they settle shoulder to shoulder. Squinting up at the bright sky, she sighs, before moving to pick one of the red flowers.

“She knows,” Kassandra glances at him side-long. “Myrrine, she knows about...us.”

Leaning back on his elbows, Brasidas nods slowly. “So will she defend your honor with a _xiphos_ or a spear?”

She rolls her eyes at him, reaching over to shove his shoulder gently. “Probably with words. Unless you say the wrong one, and then most definitely her spear.”

“I don’t care, Kassandra, if she knows.” His words come in a rush and he’s very aware that he’s not even sure what they are. He knows how he feels but her emotions are unnameable.

Nodding at him, she turns the flower between her fingers, silent again. Then: “It will be some time before we see each other again, Brasidas.” Her lips twist to the side and she studiously avoids looking at him. “The Olympics are months away, so we’ll go to Boeotia first.”

“Will you meet your mother in Arkadia after?” He whispers, eyes glued to her profile.

She nods again and chews on the inside of her lip -- he can tell, by the way the skin pulls. He’s watched her do it countless times now. Her eyes dart to his and she shrugs a little. “So, nine months? A year from now? If you’re still in Arkadia, I’ll see you there. We…” she hesitates again, her attention going back to the flower in her hand. “We’re leaving at first light. The _Adrestia_ is ready, sooner than I expected.”

His chest clenches even as he reaches for her hand, entwining her fingers with his and squeezing. He thought he’d have one more full day with her; she wasn’t supposed to go until the day after next. But plans change, the world moves on, and he cannot afford to sit here and mope over shifting timetables. “In Arkadia, then,” he murmurs, voice cracking very slightly. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Turning toward him, she presses him into the grass and flowers, kissing him soundly, exploring his mouth with her own. His fingers trail down her side, pressing into her hip, pulling her close. When she pulls away, she rests her head on his shoulder, watching the birds fly above them in the sky.

They stay like that, curled together and quiet, for a long while. Her breathing is even and he feels like he could fall asleep here, but that he’d miss a precious moment if he did. Above, in a tree, Ikaros caws: a warning that someone nears.

It’s just a couple of soldiers, on their way to the _syssiteia_ , but Kassandra pulls away from him all the same, moving to put a respectable space between them. Brasidas sits up, brushing grass off of his armor, but the soldiers wander down the hill, oblivious to any others around them, singing some war song.

“Will you stay on the _Adrestia_ tonight?” His voice is soft and he squints at her in the sunlight.

Hesitation and then: a shake of her head, very slight, and a smile creeping on her lips. “I think I’d prefer the comfort of a real bed for one more night. And the company of a man who does not snore. Barnabas and Herodotus could compete if there were ever a contest.”

“Aw, well, I can’t promise the comfort you desire. My bed _is_ rather old. But the latter,” he laughs, standing and offering her a hand. When she takes it, he tugs her close to him, “I’ve been told I was the quietest sleeper in the _agoge_.”

“I believe it. If it weren’t for your breathing, I would have sworn you were dead last night. Dead to the world, anyway.” Kassandra smooths her _chiton_ down, and smiles. “I...I left my things, in your house. I figured I’d be going there, anyway.”

It’s a silly thing -- they’re very obviously going back to his house, and she’s been staying there for the last week and a half -- but the familiarity of it, of slipping inside his house when he’s not there, to leave things that she needs, her weapons, her armor, her pack. It hits him like a punch to the gut and he knows he’s just looking at her, staring, and he knows he _needs to say something._

“I told you,” he smiles, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “You are always welcome, Kassandra. Always.”

They stand there, looking at each other in the bright sun of the afternoon, amidst the poppies and the river, and once again, time feels frozen. Today, tonight, they have each other and tomorrow is still hours away. Kassandra is the first to break, reaching up to touch his hand at her shoulder, turning her head to press a kiss against his skin. “Let’s go, then. I’m hungry and could use a drink.”

“I’m not sure I actually have any more food; I think we’ve eaten it all.”

“Not that kind of hungry, Brasidas.” She grins at him as she starts down the hill and he’s left with what he’s sure is a dumb grin on his face before he kicks into gear and follows her.

* * *

Kassandra, it turns out, had done a little bit of shopping before dropping her things off. There’s a clay pot of dried meat, a handful of figs, a jug of mixed wine, and his favorite: pomegranates. Just enough for tonight and for him to take a few along with him on the road.

He stands over them as she wanders around his house, double checking she’s not left anything else behind for tomorrow, flummoxed. He must have mentioned his fondness? Or maybe she just assumed that he, like most people in Hellas, likes pomegranates?

“That farmer, Linos,” she says, walking up behind him. “He’s got the best ones at the _agora_ , or so _mater_ said.” 

“Yes, he’s who I always buy them from,” Brasidas murmurs, turning his head to look at her.

“Want to share one?” She slips around him, reaching for the fruit, and suddenly there is a knife in her hand even though he barely saw her move -- not to mention that she’s just wearing the _chiton_...where was she hiding that?

Carefully cutting the fruit in half, red juice spills down her palm as some of the seeds burst. She carefully picks out a few of them and grins as she presses the seeds to his lips. He opens his mouth, accepting the gift, and is struck by their sweet and tangy flavor. Linos always has the best pomegranates.

She’s eating a few of her own now, and her lips are staining red and _gods,_ but she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. Reaching out, he takes the pomegranate from her, crowding her against the table. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

Shifting against him, she casually licks the fruit’s juice from her fingers. It takes everything inside of him not to growl and push her to the table again and ravish her there. She grins, “I can never resist a sweet snack.”

He rolls his eyes at her before wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her up against him. Her laughter fills the room as she grapples to hold onto his shoulders and he half-carries, half-drags her to his bedroom.

Pressing her to the bed, he knows he will never be able to be in this room again and not think of her. His bed will always remind him of this: red lips and pink cheeks as she smiles up at him; her hair falling from its braid; her foot creeping up the side of his leg as he works his armor off, derailing him.

She sits up to untie the knot of her _chiton_ , slipping the fabric off, as he’s kicking off his sandals, placing his armor on the floor. By the time he’s done, she’s completely naked, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back on her elbows, and that image alone may be what keeps him going during his upcoming year in Arkadia.

Reaching for him, she tugs him down to the bed, pressing his back into the mattress, rolling on her side so she can kiss a line down his throat, scrape her teeth along his collarbone. He tugs her leg over his hips so he can skim his fingers along the inside of her thigh, barely brushing at her folds, already slick with her desire.

She huffs a sigh at his collarbone and tries to chase his fingers, but he stops her, rolling her onto her back so he can settle between her legs. He presses his mouth against the flesh of her thigh, leaving open-mouthed kisses there.

With a whine at the back of her throat, she lets him press her hips down, and he settles his hand on her stomach. Moving forward, he slides his tongue over her folds, chasing the lap with his fingers, pressing into her.

Slowly dragging his tongue against her clit, he scissors his fingers inside her, then curls them, and she groans above him, shaking her head. He works her up to a fever pitch, and then, when the muscles in her stomach are jumping under his hand, he slows -- a reprise of that second night that seems so long ago.

She drops her head back to the pillow and slides her hands to his head, whining out her frustration as he brings her close to the edge again, just to stop. “ _Brasidas_ ,” she hisses, eyes wild, hair worked free from its bindings. “I swear to you, I will--”

Breaking off, she groans as his fingers _twist_ inside of her, and he sucks _just_ hard enough to make her legs tremble, to make her let out a stream of curses, mostly directed at him.

“ _Malàka,_ Brasidas--” her fingers tighten in his hair, yanking, causing him to let a low groan fall from his lips, against her, and the vibrations from the noise make her shudder beneath him. She whines again, muttering every curse word she’s ever learned. “ _Fuck.._.fuck--”

He laughs, dragging his tongue to where his fingers are inside of her, nosing against her clit for a moment as he grins up at her. She looks thoroughly _debauched_ , and as he brings his tongue back up, moves his fingers again, _twisting, curling, spreading_ , the noises she makes now sound utterly needy and constant.

Her fingers twist into his braid and she tries to move her leg out from under him, but he leans heavily onto it, shaking his head and humming at her, driving her closer to the precipice again but not close enough.

Above him, she moves one hand to slam it against the mattress, fingers curling into the blanket. “Brasidas,” she hisses, through grit teeth, imploring, like she’s trying to get him to listen to something very important. “Brasidas, _Brasidas, please--”_

His fingers stutter inside of her as his eyes flash up to hers and he almost laughs at the shocked look on her face -- she _begged_. The knowledge of this gives rise to some dark pleasure in his chest, some primitive feeling he can’t quite tamp down (or maybe he doesn’t _want_ to tamp it down). The noise that escapes him comes from his chest and is something between a growl and a chuckle: low, dangerous and _very pleased_.

He winks at her before sliding his fingers inside of her harder, faster, as his tongue does the same around her clit. His teeth scrape along the sensitive bud once more, sucking the flesh into his mouth, but this time, _harder, more_ , and _this time_ it's enough, it's finally enough and she finally drops from the precipice that he’s been dangling her over.

With a long, ragged moan, her back arches and he finally lets go of holding her hips down, letting her come against his fingers. He rests his head on her thigh, watching as she comes down, as she blinks down at him with dark eyes and he grins at her.

Watching him crawl up her body, she shakes her head and mock-glares. “Don’t say it. Don’t _even_ say it--”

“Maybe,” he whispers, voice gravelly, pausing on his journey back up her to press kisses at her hip, breast, collarbone, the hollow of her neck. “Maybe if you say... _please.”_

She growls, yanking him down to her, kissing him (and it feels like it’s to get him to shut up, but with his cock hard and twitching against her slick folds, he really doesn’t care). When she lets go of him, he takes her leg to hike it against his hips, but she moves it to his shoulder instead with a quirk of her eyebrow.

 _Yes, this is how I will die_ , he thinks as he sinks into her, holding onto her ankle with one hand, her hip with the other. _This beautiful woman, she will be the death of me._

Her moan is ragged as he drags himself in and out of her, still overly sensitive from moments before. Moving her hands to his face, she strokes one thumb at his cheek, the other along his jaw, arching her hips up to meet his thrusts.

The moments blur together, just the feel of skin against skin, lips against lips, the hot and heady give and take. She shifts, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, closer, until she can whine and groan and whisper in his ear, fingers twisting into his hair, pressing against his shoulder. He ducks his head, grazing his teeth against her neck, sucking against her collarbone and she shudders against him, nails sharp in his skin but he can barely feel them as she tightens around him, coming again and pulling him along with her.

In the afterglow, he collapses beside her, head buried halfway under one of the pillows as his breathing returns to normal. When he blinks his eyes back open, she’s rolled onto her stomach, head pillowed on her arms, a dreamy look in her half-lidded eyes.

“I will miss you,” she whispers, inching closer to press her lips against his, before rolling over so she can curl herself into him.

He wraps his arm around her, holding her close, kissing the length of her neck before humming in agreement: “As I will I, Kassandra.”

Lulled by her even breathing, the warmth of her body and the ever present thought of _love_ , Brasidas gives in to Hypnos, and falls asleep.

* * *

 

In the morning, she wakes him with a kiss against his cheek when she rises. He dresses as she dresses, stopping at his _chiton_ while she pulls on her armor. He ties her leather strip around her braid, they share another pomegranate.

They are silent for the most part, just soaking in the last of each other’s company and everything in Brasidas is screaming at him to _just tell her_ , because if he tells her now and she doesn’t feel that way, she can move on while she’s gone and he can do the same.

But he doesn’t and he feels like a fucking coward when she kisses him hard, then longer, then one last peck and a squeeze of his hand and she’s telling him she’ll see him in a year. He tells himself this is better: that they have a war to fight, each of them, and they don’t need anything else to worry about. That _she_ doesn’t need anything else to worry about.

She plants her hands on her hips and nods. “Have a safe journey to Arkadia. Don’t let Myrrine intimidate you. She’s just my mother.”

“And the daughter of Leonidas...Archon of Naxos…Breaker of King Archidamos’ Nose…” Brasidas shrugs at her, smiling. “Bygones, right?”

She crowds him against the wall for one last kiss, his hand tracing the line of her jaw, her fingers tight on his hips and then she’s gone, pulling away and grabbing her bag without another glance.

And he understands, truly. Because he knows that if she were to turn around now, he’d beg her to stay just a little longer and neither of them can afford that. So he stays inside as she leaves, watching the door for a long while after it’s been closed again.

A year. A year in Arkadia, doing menial spy groundwork. And she’ll be in Boeotia, and Elis, and she will return triumphant, he knows. Her year will pass in a blink of an eye and his will last for eons.

Dragging his hand down his face and over his beard, Brasidas returns to bed to find a neatly folded scrap of _papyros_ on his pillow. He opens it to find her hastily, messily scrawled message:

_It’s just a year._

_-K_

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a smile and he lays back down, fingers curled around the note.


End file.
